


Clay Pigeons

by Comatosejoy



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Patroclus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24547414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comatosejoy/pseuds/Comatosejoy
Summary: A modern-day reimagining of the scene where Patroclus and his father see Achilles for the first time. Set in the Rocky Mountains area. Ficlet.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 63





	Clay Pigeons

I’m not a marksman, not a shooter. My dad tries to teach me all about gun etiquette, growing up. 

We go to the prairie, with the sky so bright blue that I look down, ashamed to show it my face. There is my father, who is an expert, and Peleus, a business associate, who is there for fun, and his child, who is perfect, whose golden hair matches the grass that makes my shins itch. I do not complain; it seems I am the only one bothered by it. I am like a shadow, watching them.

My father throws a clay pigeon into the air, and squeezes the trigger of his gun to shatter it. He does not pick up the bright orange pieces that litter the grassland. I do, when they move on. I put them in my pocket. 

“Do you wish to try?” I hear Peleus ask his son. He screws up his face and then nods. Peleus takes one of the pigeons, throws it high and far. I am impressed by just his arm. His son shoots it out of the air. Obliterates it. I could not hope to gather the pieces that will spread across the ground. There will be an orange dust marring this place until the wind sweeps it away, and I find myself angry at the boy. 

“You’re a natural,” my father says, and claps a hand on his small shoulder, beaming. It is more affection than he has ever shown me. The men continue walking, tossing the pigeons, shooting them down. I gather the pieces; my pockets are full. I carry them in my hands, now. I am starting to panic, running out of space.

“You missed a piece,” the boy says. His voice is high and sweet, and I am looking at his face. He has a perfect Cupid’s bow. His eyes are green. His hair falls in careless, lovely spirals. He could pass for a girl, he is so pretty. I loathe him for his beauty, for how my father so clearly prefers him to me. I have been staring just a beat too long. He looks down at his hand, which I realize is stretched out to me. There is a fragment of orange clay. My hands are occupied and I make a distressed noise. He laughs at it, and I feel my ears get hot. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got pockets of my own,” he says, and relieves my hands of their burden. He shoves them into the pockets of his jeans, into the front pocket of his flannel. I realize my mouth is open as I watch him and close it quickly. All the malice I had for him fades in an instant, feels silly, even. Why be angry at the sun for shining? 

It is a strange thing, to be noticed. He helps to pick the scattered pieces up, purposefully, making sure that I see him do it. It is performative. I realize he is only doing it because he saw that leaving them bothered me, and I am struck by the idea of my feelings being considered by another person. 

I do not see him again for years. I think it is a dream, when I recall it. I think I had imagined kindness because I had none in my own home.


End file.
